Jonathan found Louis Hedler in his office. He was struck, when he entered, by Louis' worried and drawn expression, and his sluggish manner. He was also surprised when Louis, instead of looking apprehensive as usual when Jonathan entered, smiled at him almost paternally. "Jon, my boy," he said.
"What's the matter, Louis? Are you sick?"
"Well, no. Sit down, Jon. I'm just—concerned—about a member of the staff." The bulging brown eyes studied Jonathan with a peculiar expression. "A fine man, rather young. I'm afraid he's in a little trouble—of his own doing, in a way. Rash. Impetuous. A little indiscreet at times. But I happen to be fond of him." Louis smiled. "Personally, he offends me often, but I have to admit he knows what he knows, and in a superior manner. If you had told me," said Louis, "a year or two years ago, or even six months ago, that I'd be concerned Over him now I'd have laughed tremendously."
"You're mellowing, Louis. Who's the mellower?"
Louis contemplated him, then smiled enigmatically. "I don't think you know him, Jon. No, I don't think you know him at all." He rubbed his lips. "You never come in here, Jon, without bringing me contention or alarms or worries. Which is it now?"
"Every single one." He told Louis about Dr. Brinkerman and Philip Harrington. He did not know why Louis' face became more and more dismayed as he talked. "So," said Jonathan, "if you have no objection, I'd like to be present in the operating room."
"That's impossible! You know how Claude hates you."
"Just because we had a difference of opinion? A long time ago? Don't we all have differences of opinion with each other? I'm not pretending that Claude loves me, but he's surely forgotten my clash with him."
On the contrary, thought Louis, very much on the contrary! He said with some malice, "Jon, wasn't it a few of you bright young lads who insisted that the operating surgeon have the privilege to refuse to have anyone present he did not desire to be there? Yes. In the old days any physician who was interested, and even his friends, could enter an operating room and observe to his heart's content. But not you lads. All for asepsis and no theater atmosphere."
Louis smiled at the tight strong face opposite him, and the dark and amused eyes. "Touche, Louis. But, we are right. Who is the young lady, by the way, and who is her family physician who sent her here?"
"Um," said Louis. He shook his head, then said, "Mrs. Jason Hornby. Attending physician, Summers Bayne, friend of yours."
"Splendid," said Jonathan, and reached without permission for the telephone on the desk and called Dr. Bayne and then spoke in his most ingratiating way. "I'd like to be present, Summers, when Claude Brinkerman operates on your patient today, Mrs. Jason Hornby, at two o'clock. Oh, ten is it? Even better. I am here at St. Hilda's now. You see, Dr. Phil Harrington can't be present," said Jonathan cocked his black eyebrows at Louis and smiled. "So, Phil has asked me to be there in his place. There's a little difficulty, Summers. Old Claude doesn't love me as he should. You'll mention that I am there at your request if he should object? By the way, who picked Brinkerman?" Jonathan listened and frowned. Then he said, "I quite agree with you. I wouldn't let him clip my dog's nails. Don't worry, Summers. I'll be right there, and you will be, too, and we won't let him do any fancy hemstitching or let him waltz around the vena cava. He does so love that vena cava, and why the Board doesn't throw him out is something perhaps only old Louis can tell you." Jonathan winked at his indignant elder. He replaced the telephone receiver, and said, "The young lady chose Brinkerman herself. Insisted, so what can poor Summers do? He was quite relieved when I said I wanted to be present."
"You're an impertinent rascal, Jon."
"Oh, I know that. Incidentally, why don't you throw Brinkerman out?"
"Jon, he's an expert surgeon, if a little—radical—at times.
He is as bad as you about asepsis. If his judgment occasionally fails him, who among us can plead that we are never wrong? If the average layman fully understood into what vulnerable weak hands he was trustfully submitting himself, and to what fallible judgment, we'd have no more hospitals, no more operating rooms."
"And many people would still be alive instead of rotting peacefully away in some pretty cemeteries. That's just confidential between ourselves, of course."
"You don't keep that very 'confidential' very often, Jon." Louis was very disturbed. "I wish I could dissuade you. I have my own reasons for suggesting you not be there. You have enough enemies, Jon, and Brinkerman is a man who cherishes his enemies and never stops until he has cut their throats."
"He can't hate me more than he already does."
Louis was silent, gazing at him, and then he said in an odd voice, "You are quite right."
Jonathan went out to inform Philip Harrington that he was "taking your place. You have an emergency." Philip was relieved. "Mrs. Hornby is a nice rich young lady, or Brinkerman wouldn't look at her, and isn't it fortunate for a lot of people that they can't afford some operations? Poverty has done more to save lives than wealth has done, and if that isn't heresy what is it?"
"It's truth," said Jonathan, and went on his rounds. At half-past nine he was in the scrub room adjacent to the operating room and, whistling, was beginning to scrub when Claude Brinkerman came in with a blast like an attacking Minotaur. "What the hell is this, Ferrier, you being my assistant on the Hornby case?"
"Didn't you hear?" asked Jonathan, very mildly. "Phil has an emergency. He asked me to do him a favor and—"
The hard and flaming face seemed to radiate irrepressible hatred and fury, and the little pale eyes sparked with a murderous glow. Jonathan, who was well aware of their mutual dislike and mistrust, was still surprised at this overwhelming and vehement attack, for the cause of their old disagreements had been trivial. But Brinkerman appeared beside himself as he stood and breathed rage at his junior, clenching and unclenching his huge hands at his sides, his broad chest heaving. Had Jonathan been his deadliest enemy, he could not have betrayed more savage irrationality, no more incipient violence.
"I won't have you!" shouted Brinkerman. "I want no mur—" He stopped, visibly and painfully swallowed. But his rage grew. "I won't have you! Is that clear?"
"Summers Bayne asked me," said Jonathan. "He has that right. Or would you prefer to let Phil Harrington to the job for you in an hour or two, when his present emergency is over? This case isn't an on-the-minute emergency, I understand." He looked at Brinkerman. "What was it you were about to call me, Claude?" He shook his wet hands and now as he looked at the other surgeon there was something in his eyes that was frightening. Dr. Brinkerman looked back at him and a curious malign flickering ran over his large coarse features, and there was a twitching of his long thin mouth.
"Never mind," he said. His forehead was purplish red, but now the doctor began to subside. He lowered his voice. "Ferrier, I don't like you and I never did. I don't trust you and I never did."
"I can repeat those laudable sentiments about you, too, Brinkerman."
"You can be of no help to me in that room, Ferrier."
"But I can be of help, perhaps, to the patient," said Jonathan, and again their eyes met like boulders meeting.
"Are you questioning my professional competence?"
"Are you questioning mine, Brinkerman?"
The other doctor again raised his voice. "I don't want you!"
"Summers does. Louis knows, too."
Dr. Brinkerman was suddenly silent. Then he smiled very slightly. "Old Louis," he said, "may have reason to regret this very soon."
Jonathan shrugged and went back to his scrubbing. Two young nurses near the doors, forgotten by the two men, smiled meaningly at each other, then gave Dr. Brinkerman, whom they detested, a sympathetic glance. Jonathan saw this in the mirror on the wall and shook his head. These girls would not have been in the room alone with Brinkerman, but there was another man here whom they disliked more, and that man was Jonathan Ferrier, who had given them no cause at all to hate him, and if he had often been rudely jocular with them, he had also sho
wn them his respect for their profession and was frequently kind. But he was a "foreigner" to them, even to one of the young ladies who was an American citizen by naturalization. He watched them make moues of sympathy at Dr. Brinkerman. Encouraged by this, Dr.
Brinkerman pinched the breast of one roughly as he passed her to another sink. She winced, and tears of pain came into her eyes, but she still tried to smile at him.
Human nature, thought Jonathan, who had seen this and strongly wanted to hit Claude Brinkerman, is something I will never understand. But then, as Mama once told me when I was a kid, I am the "unpopular minority." Yes, indeed, minorities generally catch hell. Yet, how are unpopular minorities formed, and by whose judgment and whose decree? Who has the right to decide who shall belong, and who shall not, to the general "loving brotherhood of man?" By what standard? Personal integrity, worth, honor, intelligence, charity, goodness, harmlessness, dedication, decency? It has been my experience that these virtues are held in very low repute by majorities, so they cannot be the frame of reference for judgments.
He became aware, and through the mirror again, that Dr. Brinkerman was giving him even more curious glances, satisfied, hating, gloating, and his instinct for danger was alerted. But, what was the danger? What damage could Brinkerman do him? He looked at the thick red neck, a neck as muscular and almost as heavy as a bull's, and at the meaty, soapy hands. He had no doubt that Brinkerman would enjoy murdering him, and he returned the compliment. Still, he wondered. When he had encountered Brinkerman infrequently in the corridors, they had exchanged cold nods and nothing more. This new wild violence was inexplicable.
"I want you to know, Brinkerman," said Jonathan, "that I did not exactly force myself into this situation. My presence was requested."
"I am aware of that, Ferrier. I shall deal with Summers Bayne in my own way at my own leisure."
Jonathan considered this. "I am not without friends," he said.
"You would be surprised," said Brinkerman, and chuckled hoarsely.
Jonathan frowned. He was remembering what Philip Harrington had told him recently, and the odd way his former friends were treating him in the hospital corridors and in the lounge rooms recently. But he made himself smile, knowing that Brinkerman was watching him closely.
"Very ambiguous," he said. "But I have enough friends to protect Summers, and I am famous for protecting my friends." He motioned to one of the nurses, who came forward to powder his drying hands and to help him with his rubber gloves. "Moreover, Summers' brother is a State Senator, close to the Governor, or did you not know that? I also believe that brother is on the Medical Board. If I am wrong, please correct me."
Dr. Brinkerman had forgotten. He gave Jonathan another vicious look but remained silent. The young nurse assisting Jonathan held her mouth prominently disapproving of him and avoided his eyes, and Jonathan again wondered at human nature, for he knew that Dr. Bayne was very popular with the nurses and Brinkerman's ugly threat against him should have vexed the girl. Jonathan mentally checked another black mark against mankind.
The patient was ready when the two surgeons went into the operating room and Dr. Bayne, already scrubbed and masked and covered, was waiting for them. He gave Jonathan an inquiring look and Jonathan winked at him. The patient was under anesthesia, and all was in readiness. Jonathan looked at her pretty unconscious face, the face of a child. Then he looked at Dr. Brinkerman, who was also studying those soft and childlike features, and his eyes were lustful and hungry as a torturer's, and as the sadist's they were.
There was no denying that he was a competent surgeon, and he made the incision with a preciseness and skill and smoothness that won Jonathan's admiration. It was a routine matter. The pregnant tube was large and bulging but was not unduly inflamed, nor had it ruptured. The girl was lucky. Dr. Brinkerman neatly excised it, and then he said to the watching interns, ignoring Dr. Bayne and Jonathan, "I will now closely examine the uterus for deformities, and the other ovary. I have not yet decided if this one should be removed, and possibly the uterus."
The men exchanged troubled glances. But Jonathan said, "I can see for myself that the uterus and both ovaries are in prime condition, and there is no need for an extensive exploration."
Dr. Brinkerman paused. He turned his head slowly and his pale eyes glowed with evil fire. "Am I the surgeon, or are you, Ferrier?"
"I am your assistant, if you wish to call it that, and I am also bound by the Oath of Hippocrates and am a defender of the public weal. Therefore, if you do any damage to this girl's reproductive system, I shall do everything I can to prevent you from ever operating oh anyone again."
He spoke clearly and sharply and with assurance, fully aware that he had now done the irrevocable: he had deliberately insulted and defamed the operating surgeon in his own domain, before the faces of witnesses. But to him the young girl on the table, so unaware, so trustful, so helpless, was more to him than any consequences to him, though he knew they could be grave. However, only the strongest of threats could stop this sadist, and Jonathan had used them.
"For this alone," said Brinkerman, in a terrible voice, "you could have your license revoked."
Jonathan laughed. "I should like to see you try it. I will bring witnesses against you, and be damned to professional ethics and always protecting the bungler or the intentional mutilator. Well? Aren't you going to suture the girl or are you going to permit her to bleed to death?"
He nodded to Dr. Bayne and, still watching Brinkerman closely, he went to the tubal pregnancy on its receiving basin, and he dipped his hand in water and baptized the exposed embryo. Some of the interns smiled indulgently, but at least two looked grave, and Dr. Bayne blessed' himself. Dr. Brinkerman laughed lewdly and made a low indecent remark to the nurse nearest him. But the girl was unexpectedly near tears.
"After your vindictive remarks, Ferrier," said Dr. Brinkerman, "I have no recourse but to report you to the Board. Moreover, if this patient of mine suffers unfortunate results, the blame rests with you, for interference and overt intimidation."
Jonathan came back to the table. "I shall protect myself by watching every move you make, Brinkerman, so you don't do the girl a sly mischief, which I would not put past you. You have a reputation for that." He looked at Dr. Bayne, whose eyes showed his worry and alarm. "Don't be too concerned, Summers," he said. "Just watch the child carefully."
Everyone was convinced that Dr. Brinkerman was about to have a stroke. His hand trembled and shook. Jonathan dared not take the needle from him, for his hand had become contaminated, he believed, even in the presumably sterile water in which he had dipped it. He did not, however trust the sterilizing of very much in the operating room, and so refrained. But he watched every movement of Dr. Brinkerman's. The older surgeon had considerable self-control when he wished, and he recovered himself and his awful color receded, and he completed the stitching without incident Then he strode,
without a word, from the room, viciously stripping the gloves from his hands and banging the door behind him.
"He'd kill you if he could, Jon," said Dr. Bayne, as the interns and nurses tenderly covered the girl closely with the blankets and sheets and wheeled her out. "That is a very bad man."
"And a man who should not be permitted to operate on any woman under the age of fifty," said Jonathan. "Jon, be careful."
"In this business it is a crime to be too careful of a colleague's delicate sensibilities," said Jonathan. "I've never covered for a man like Brinkerman before and I do not intend to do it now."
He expected to be called to Louis Hedler's office, but though he remained in the hospital for another hour, he received no call. He went down to the river, and to the island.
When Jonathan was half across the unusually quiet water of the river, he noticed that the sky had a disturbingly hot brazen quality, actually saffron, and burning. It reflected itself on the small blue ripples of the water, not with the clarity of sunlight, though the sun shone hot enough, but with a dullness. He l
ooked down the river and saw the white steeple of a little church on the winding mainland, and for some reason it appeared bleak to him and hard and cold. It's only my depression, he thought. He had seen that steeple countless times, and never had it affected him so before with a sense of loneliness and removal.
Damn it, he thought, I had such dreams for this town. I'd have an X-ray in one of the hospitals. I'd have a store of radium. I'd induce famous doctors to come here to lecture our bumpkins. I'd build a tuberculosis wing on St. Hilda's, and a cancer research laboratory. That's what I, the great Samaritan, wanted to do for Hambledon—to make a small, compact, modern medical center, which even Boston wouldn't despise. God knows we—I mean they—need it Farewell, dreams. Farewell everything except Jenny.
He had taken off his tie and his tall stiff white collar and his coat, yet he was sweating profusely by the time he reached the island and had tied up the little boat. He noticed that the river had fallen again, and more stones were bare. He looked at the sky. When this extraordinary weather broke, it would be hell. He had already forgotten Claude Brinkerman. All his thoughts, as he climbed toward the castie, were of Jenny Heger. He carried his coat 00 his arm, and his hat in his hand, for his skin was so naturally dark and of an autumn color that he did not fear for sensitivity to the sun. He began to whistle.
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